


Breaking Habits

by orphan_account



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Cecil is Mostly Human, Cecil is kind of a dick, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, M/M, Smoking, Vaguely sexual scenes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-11 14:10:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2071284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He couldn't live with himself if he messed this up, of all things. He didn't mention his gory blood stone rituals, the way he sometimes likes to dip his fries in his beer, or the fact he smokes more than a chimney. To him he wasn't keeping secrets; he was just holding them for a later date when he could be sure Carlos wouldn't be too repulsed to hate his guts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s near the end of the broadcast that Cecil’s phone vibrates in his pocket. Of course, being the voice of Night Vale, and a damn good radio host if you ask just about anybody, he ignores it until his show is done, despite knowing it’s got to be his handsome scientist texting him. Once the red light from the on air sign fades out with a loud click, he fishes out his phone and reads the message. He gets giddy as his eyes wander over the words.

 _‘You. Me. Big Rico’s. Two huge wheat-free slices. Half an hour.’_ He smiles as he reads, momentarily flashing his white (and, fairly sharp) teeth to himself.

They've been on several dates now, six, if the half an hour of sitting on boot of Carlos’ car in silence staring up into the twinkling void counts as a date. Cecil counts it as such because that short time was better than any other date he’s been on prior to that, probably. Admittedly, the buildup of passionate infatuation and the fear of Carlos’ death probably made that dark night far better than it would have been in any other situation. Sharing dates with Carlos made Cecil’s life feel like a dream. The town knew they were going steady now, and every time they would meet at a restaurant or walked hand in hand down through Mission Grove Park, people would look on quietly and smile. _“I saw you and your boyfriend,”_ a citizen would say, being interviewed about being one of few witnesses of the sudden abduction of several classes of school children visiting the local museum of forbidden technologies. _“You look very cute together.”_

He couldn't help but agree.

 _'Are you courting me, Mr. Scientist?’_ Cecil sends back. The response comes quickly.

 _'Depends, is it working?’_ It reads, followed by a very suggestive winking smile emoji.

 _‘I’ll see you there.’_ Cecil types in a heart emoji, but he’s not sure if the gesture is too forward, so he backspaces and retypes out a smile emoji and a semi-suspicious bespectacled dentist emoji. Cecil thinks it’s far better keep the displays of affection low key this early in the relationship, probably forgetting the hours spent gushing into his microphone about Carlos’ perfect locks of dark hair, or the way his behind looked in his jeans as he did his scientific duties.

He packs up the studio before locking up and heading out. He’s alone in the building, save station management, who are rather quiet around these hours which lean towards night. There aren't any interns around since Intern Joseph’s physical body was sucked from the human realm by the coffee machine when it malfunctioned last Wednesday. The interns would have left already anyway. Cecil piles some of the loose papers to the corner of his desk, puts his coffee cups in the sink, and ignores the strange feeling of Intern Joseph’s spiritual being still hovering in the in-between in the station kitchen. The cleaning lady will probably deal with that tomorrow morning when she vacuums the station’s threadbare carpets.

His sweeps his essentials into his old fraying leather satchel, like his water bottle (half full), his cigarette box (half empty), his travel sized City Council approved blood stones, cracked iphone and his wallet (which he hadn’t told Carlos has a picture of him in it that he cut out of the newspaper a few months back when the scientists were featured in the front page article ‘Scientists, Are They All That They Seem?’ - where Carlos’ hair was tied up in a pony tail because of the summer heat, and Cecil thought it was the most adorable thing to ever exist in Night Vale).

His jingling keys and the soft screams of station management were the last things in the station to be heard before Cecil crossed the halls to the door, leaving the building behind for another night. The door clicked shut, a gurgle was heard behind the Station Management door by no one, and then, replaced by silence.

Cecil sees Carlos before he sees the lights shining incredibly bright in the contrast to the darkening sky. Carlos is just so incredibly _eye-catching_. The drive over was a blur, which it has always been since the City Council banned multitasking whilst driving last year. This law included thinking, blinking more than once per minute, and chewing. Carlos is there, white lab coat, white tennis shoes, white teeth, dark skin. _Beautifully_ dark skin. Skin Cecil wanted to kiss every square inch of, which he could quite possibly do tonight if this date ended as well as it did last week. That evening ended in heavy breathing and passion-fueled frenzy, hopefully this time they could take their time so Cecil could take in his boyfriend’s perfect body in more, scars and moles and freckles in all.

“Hi.” Carlos says, hands in the pockets of his smartest lab coat.

“Carlos.” Is his only response, voice almost excitedly breathless already.

Carlos holds the door open for him, like a perfect gentleman, and the smell of wheat and wheat by-product free pizza dough hits them hard and makes Cecil’s mouth water. They take a small private booth in the far corner, dimly lit and very romantic. They sit opposite each other, the tongue-less waitress takes their order, and they chatter about nothing.

“Tell me Carlos,” Cecil says after sipping at the complimentary iced water the waitress had handed them wordlessly, “How is your science going?”

“Oh you know, strange, impossible, and without any comprehensible answers.” He shrugs, “Oddly enough, I’m used to it by now; the oddities of this town don’t get to me much anymore. It’s normality.”

Cecil nods. “It doesn’t bother you? At least, not as much as it used to?”

“It doesn’t bother me at all, I enjoy everything about this town,” Carlos answers with a thoughtful smile, and Cecil shyly covers his face with his hand to hide the growing purple blush spreading across his cheeks.

“I’m glad.” Cecil says into his palm.

“As I said, it’s normal now, but, uh, not all of the scientists are as used to it as I am now.” Carlos frowns inwardly. Cecil watches his forehead crease in thought as the topic turns to something negative. 

He’s known for a while that his perfect scientist’s workplace hasn’t been so… perfect. Originally, a team of twelve scientists moved into Night Vale in order to study and gather data from the various strange happenings of the town. Of the original twelve eager scientists who entered the desert town that warm morning, one remains. Some would grow anxious as a result of being exposed to the strangeness of the town; some would become frustrated from the lack of coherent results or patterns, and over the past first months, most would simply leave. Night Vale was far too much for them. It was almost too much for Carlos, too, he had told Cecil that on their third date at the Moonlight All-Night Diner.

“It scared me. Because all my life I’d read these books of solid facts, facts that were proven and set in stone.” Carlos had told him after they dropped into the diner to hide from the desert night chill, “Night Vale is different. This town is riddled with the unknown, and I don’t have answers, no one does.”

Four days after that particular diner date, Lorna left town. Lorna and Carlos were the last two of the first twelve, and were as close as two colleagues could get. They were different to the other scientists, and shared a lot in common, both strong willed, passionate, and queer as a three dollar bill. Lorna was married to a woman named Carrie who was fighting in Afghanistan, and would return a year and a half after she arrived in Night Vale.

She’d told Carlos over beers one night in his apartment that if she could last a year and a half, just a year and a half, she’d be able to have good qualifications to work anywhere Carrie wanted to live after she came home. They’d both agreed that night by a spit shake (which they only did because they were a little drunk at that point) that they would both last at _least_ year. And they did. They stayed long through watching their colleagues pack up and leave, or disappear. Soon after the one year mark, Carrie was discharged early, as a piece of shrapnel had carved a fear chunk of flesh out of her outer left thigh.  Carlos was happy for Lorna, because, as she had worded it, ‘she hadn’t of had any for a year’, but after she packed up and left, he cried a bit, for the loss of a friend, and a little because he was now left with the new replacement scientists, who were far younger than him and terribly stupid. She said she’d write, but she either didn't, or the postman ate the letters.

“Kirk left today.” Carlos announced, breaking Cecil’s thought bubble.

“Oh! Oh.” Cecil put his drink down. “I’m so sorry, Carlos. Were you close?” He gingerly reached over and put his hand on Carlos’. Carlos was always warm, Cecil always cold. Their hands felt right together.

“Don't worry, Cecil. We weren't close. I didn't like him particularly.”

“Oh. Was he young?” Cecil asked. Carlos hadn’t taken a liking to any junior scientists since one of them called him grandpa, as a joke, regarding the slight graying of his hairline. It had embarrassed him greatly, and he told Cecil over the phone he wanted to dye it to hide the sign of his aging. Cecil almost had an aneurysm from the thought of anything ‘tainting’ his hair, and talked him out of it.

“No, not really. He’s a little younger than me but not by much. It was just… he was kind of annoying? Do I sound bitter?”

“Never.”

“Okay. Let me complain for a bit alright?”

“Alright.” Cecil complied.

“First off,” He started, and Cecil smiled, “He’s irritating. He thinks he’s far superior to everyone else because he’s got more qualifications. He acts like a big shot and tried to order everyone, and me, around, even though I’m the head of the program now in Night Vale. And he’s gross. He leaves food out to rot in the lab overnight. It’s lazy, disrespectful, and unhealthy.”

“Yuck.”

“I _know_. And worst of all?” Carlos is really heated now, “He’s a smoker.”

The hand Carlos is holding in the centre of the table goes weak. Cecil doesn’t know what to say. There’s a silence between them before Carlos laughs.

“Disgusting, right? He reeks of cigarette smoke. He smokes in the lab. Everyone hates it.”

“Yeah.” Cecil says quietly, not knowing how to say much else.

The waitress returns, apron slightly bloodied, and places their steaming dishes of pizza in front of them. They eat, and Carlos talks more of the projects he’s working on, but Cecil’s mind is far away.  Cecil has kept certain facts about his life out of conversation with Carlos. The fear of turning Carlos away from him was always hanging over his shoulders. He couldn't live with himself if he messed this up, of all things. He didn’t mention his gory blood stone rituals, the way he sometimes likes to dip his fries in his beer, or the fact he smokes more than a chimney. To him he wasn't keeping secrets; he was just holding them for a later date when he could be sure Carlos wouldn’t be _too_ repulsed to hate his guts.

“Are you alright?” Carlos asks, almost done with his slice, leaving the crust behind as always.

Cecil hums in response, only having eaten half of his share until he stopped to gnaw absent-mindedly on the side of his thumb.

“Tired? Long day?”

Cecil nods.

“I don't blame you, it must have been tiring reporting on the eye-eating virus all day. Thank god we both go our shots for that a month ago.” He jokes. Cecil fakes a smile.

“I’d better go.”

“Already?”

“I’m really tired. I have to get up early to write a report for tomorrow on the spike in librarian victim’s deaths.” Cecil stands up, grabbing his satchel which feels far, far heavier than before. He looks at his seat in the booth in fear that his box of cigarettes had fallen out, exposing his habit.

“I understand.” Carlos kisses him on the cheek, stubble tickling Cecil’s face as he lingers there, making him shudder.

“Bye, Carlos.” He turns away, and walks probably far too quickly to the door, exits, and doesn’t turn to see if Carlos had followed him out. He suddenly feels self-conscious as he unlocks his car and slips in. Could Carlos detect the smell of the two cigarettes he smoked during tonight’s weather section of the broadcast? Carlos said it was disgusting. Smoking was disgusting, and if smoking was disgusting, Cecil would be too, by default. He drove home, the blur of thoughtlessness whilst in the driver’s seat no longer felt pleasant.

In no time at all he was in front of his apartment building, and as soon as he had jogged up the steps, entered the building, and the elevator doors closed before him, he fished the cigarettes out of his bag and lit up, the first drag of poison into his waiting lungs felt like the first breath after drowning. He’d been gasping for it since the smoking conversation started an hour ago. Carlos couldn’t know. He didn’t have to know, Cecil told himself. The elevator dinged at his floor and he quickly strode until he reached his apartment, jammed his keys in the lock impatiently, whispered an ancient hymn into the keyhole, and then the door creaked open for him.

For the next hour he sat at the kitchen table, lost in thought. He was on his third cigarette. After that one, he deemed it his last. He gathered up all of the cigarettes he could find in his apartment and dumped them in the toilet. They were lost down the drain with an ugly gurgle.  Better that than putting them in the trash can, because he might be able to rummage through and find them in the morning, he reasoned.

He returned to the table and sat in silence. Inhaling. Exhaling. His hand slipped into his front pocket and found his old zippo. He fingered over the small indents in the lighter it had acquired over the years since Earl Harlan had given it to him. It was engraved with ‘ _Ceese’_  in cursive, the nickname Earl called him since they were seven.

He closed his eyes, and stopped thinking, the metal lighter feeling like melting chocolate in the heat of his palm.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Cecil woke without remembering going to bed. He pulled himself up, showered, surfed the internet, and craved a smoke. His lighter was gone when he was up, he wasn’t sure if he had flushed it down with the rest of his smokes.  He sure hoped not, because despite having apparently lost most of his memories of his childhood and teenage years, the memories of Earl giving him that lighter on his sixteenth still remain, although faded. They were camping together out in the middle of the desert when Earl gave it to him. At the time, they were expensive as hell, and Cecil didn’t have much money in his pocket, so Cecil had loved it. After searching for it for ten minutes, he gave up. It was probably gone. It was for the best.

Starting to feel tense, Cecil downed a black coffee, then two, then four, and then he left.

When he arrived at work it was almost twelve, the tense feeling hadn’t passed. Walking through the halls, past station management (who just started their screaming rituals of the day) and into the break room. A kid was there, probably barely out of puberty, still ridden with pimples. 

“I’m the new Intern.” He says, voice wavering. No doubt he’s heard of what happened to the past interns. “I’m Leonard.”

“Intern Charles.” Cecil mirrors. “Okay. Make the coffee. Two sugars, black, in my studio in five.”

“Oh! Yes sir.” Intern Leonard shuffles away.

Cecil reads his phone for the first time since last night. There’s a message from Steve Carlsberg (gross) and a message from Carlos, which is the only one he takes the time to read.

_‘How are you? Dinner tonight?’_

_‘Mine or yours?’_ He writes in response, hoping Carlos doesn’t pick up that he avoids answering the first question. He slips the phone back in his pocket after his boyfriend doesn’t respond immediately, somewhat impatient this morning. The intern come in with the coffee and sets it down on his desk, mindful of the microphone equipment, almost sloshing it on the papers with shaky hands.

“Watch it.” Cecil warns.

“Sorry.”

“Intern Charles? I have a task for you.”

“Yes?”

“Here’s twenty bucks. Go down to the closest drugstore and buy me a packet of nicotine patches okay?”

After the intern leaves, Cecil busies himself with organizing the contents of the day’s broadcast. He runs a hand through his hair and jiggles his leg under the table. He’s anxious. Why is he anxious? He needs a cigarette. He rummages through the draws of his desk. He finds nail clippers, a framed picture of Leonard Burton, a condom of questionable age and origin, but no cigarettes. His phone rings loudly.

“Fuck.” He hasn’t sworn in years. The ringtone grates at his brain and makes him realize his growing headache. He looks at the cracked screen. It’s Carlos.

“Hello?”

“Hi Cecil.” Carlos sounds happy through the phone. “How are you?”

“Good.” He lies. It’s a white lie though so it’s maybe morally okay.

“Great! Can we do dinner tonight at yours? I kind of blew something up in my apartment so it stinks a bit.”

“Uh-huh.” Cecil clicks his pen over and over under the desk.

“I’ll bring over take out okay?” He offers. Cecil suddenly remembers how he leaved so abruptly last night and didn’t pay his fair share of the meal.

“I can if you’d like, Carlos…”

“No! No. I’ve got it, not sweat okay? I’ve got to get back to work. We’ve got a replacement for Kirk and I’m showing him around. Good luck with the show, I’ll be listening.”

Cecil opens his mouth in the form of the first syllable of ‘I love you’ but stops himself, clearing his throat and saying a quiet goodbye.

Apart from Carlos’ first day in Night Vale, neither of the two had said the L word to each other yet. Cecil hopes Carlos was far too busy with moving in and doing science to listen to the broadcast that day. He’d been too love-struck to filter himself. How _embarrassing_ if Carlos had heard.

Cecil doesn’t count the time Carlos said he loved him. It had been the second out of three times that they had sex. They were both in some kind of a blurred moment of pleasure and incoherency. They weren’t thinking straight; Carlos was above him, bare, exposed the two of them in a situation where they were most vulnerable and open. _“I love you.”_ It had been a sort of half-sigh half-moan, it sounded almost desperate, and Cecil didn't really process the sentence until afterwards when they were lying back facing the ceiling and trying to catch their breath. Carlos looking visibly embarrassed, so they both acted like they had forgotten it had ever been said.

Nearly an hour had past until Charles _finally_ returned back to the station, breathless and sweating from running in the desert heat from the station to the nearest drugstore and back again, but Cecil didn’t take notice. The headache had grown into a dull throb, and the goddamn aspirin wasn’t doing anything.

Cecil skimmed the instructions in the station’s men’s bathroom, one patch a day, apply below the neck but above the waist, may cause skin irrigation, etcetera. Khoshekh mewled impatiently for attention as he tried to decide where to put it on. He couldn’t on his arms, his sleeves were rolled up. He couldn’t on his chest or belly in case his shirt became unbuttoned accidently, allowing Carlos notice. He ends up awkwardly applying it to his center back, without the aid of a mirror and probably looking like a total loon in the process.

By the time he’s put on the patch, fed Khoshekh, and organized his papers, it’s pretty much time to go on air. He hasn’t been late for a broadcast since his first days as the voice of Night Vale, when he was still a rookie at the whole thing so he had an excuse, but dying for smoke didn’t really count for anything.

He breathes, but it feels like drowning.

“Driving Safety Tips: Do not turn on your high-beams in fog. You do not want to see what is actually in this fog. Welcome to Night Vale.”

**Author's Note:**

> its nearly midnight and im too tired to proofread enjoy my grammar, nerds


End file.
